


The Ones Who Go On

by hjbender



Series: Just Communication [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Drama, Ficart, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6546127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After months of radio silence, Heero unexpectedly shows up in the L2 cluster with a personal favor to ask of Duo. Unable to say no, Duo takes on the task while struggling to come to terms with old wounds and a side of Heero he's never seen before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Side A

The corner of a gutted computer chassis caught his skin and ripped a red line down Duo Maxwell’s arm. He grunted and dropped the tangle of metal into a 50-gallon drum with the word _STEEL_ spray-painted on the side. It didn’t fall far; the drum was close to full.  
  
Duo straightened his back and wiped aside the hair that was sticking to his sweaty forehead, his glove leaving behind a black smudge. He examined his wound, which had begun to develop tiny red beads where the skin had been broken. Long way from the heart, he decided, and went back to work.  
  
So far it had been a typical Saturday; he had made his rounds, relieved customers of their unwanted metal refuse, and returned to Scrapland Yard—the affectionate moniker for his rambling half-acre estate in the industrial sector of this particular L2 colony—with the back of his old 6x6 cargo truck filled with enough treasure to keep him busy for the next two weeks. If he didn’t develop lockjaw by then. Now came the labor-intensive task of sorting the metal, a process which would usually occupy him until dark.  
  
He wasn’t alone this afternoon. The voices of a long-dead heavy metal band bellowed from the old precolonial boom box sitting by the fence. Duo had eclectic taste in music, but he always preferred to listen to metal when he was scrapping. Somehow it just felt right.  
  
He bent down and pried the plastic handles off of a battered steel filing cabinet, his braid draping over his shoulder like a thick brown vine. He tossed the plastic into a separate bin, picked up a crowbar, and began to dismantle the cabinet into more manageable pieces. It was hard work, but he liked it. Better than sitting at a computer for hours and writing ciphertext and hash functions, though that held its own sort of left-brained appeal to him. There was just something innately satisfying about getting dirty, working with one’s hands. His tank top was damp with sweat, his jeans ripped and smeared with grease, and his Docs were going to need a little TLC later if he expected to keep them around for another year. He would scrounge up some boot polish and give them a good buffing tonight—maybe strip his guns and clean them, too. Hell, he’d pop in a movie and make a night of it. It was Saturday, after all.  
  
“ _But I’ll take my time anywhere_ ,” he sang along under his breath, heaving the metal into its appropriate receptacle. “ _I’m free to speak my miiiind . . . and I’ll take my find anywhere, anywhere I roaaaam—_ ”  
  
Duo didn’t notice that someone had slipped around the side of the house and wandered into the yard. He was usually very aware of his surroundings, bordering on hyper-vigilant depending upon the circumstances, but right now he was relaxed and happy and not all that concerned about being ambushed in broad daylight. Of course, this particular visitor had a long history of flying just under Duo’s finely-tuned radar.  
  
He threw the last chunk of the cabinet into the drum and turned to look for his next victim, mewling along with the guitar solo, when he noticed his guest. He stopped singing and stared. “Heero.”  
  
Heero Yuy raised his hand in greeting, his expression cool and neutral. “Duo.”  
  
He was dressed in nondescript clothes—boots, jeans, tee, jacket—easily forgettable, no bright colors or accessories to distinguish him from any other person on the street. He carried a military-issue duffel over one shoulder. Hair, face, physique still the same. How long had it been? Eight, nine months? Duo was suddenly very aware of his pulse; it thudded hard in his temples, his chest.  
  
“Um. Long time no see,” he said, turning his attention to a busted circuit breaker panel. “What brings ya to L2? Business or business?”  
  
Heero walked over and observed Duo’s progress. “Actually,” he said, “this time it’s personal.”  
  
Duo lifted his head so fast his neck popped audibly. “ _Really_? I mean, uh. That’s . . . w-what sorta personal?”  
  
Heero reached into his jacket and pulled out a silvery antistatic bag. He handed it to Duo, who took off his gloves and opened it, giving Heero a questioning look first. What dropped onto his palm was a slim gray block, roughly 4x6 inches, no thicker than a thumb. The casing was scratched and dented, its single label dingy with age and slightly charred at the edges. It was metal, heavy for its size, and something that Duo had not seen in a very long time.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, turning it over delicately. “Heero, where did you get this drive?”

“I dug it out of the rubble of what used to be the Alliance Intelligence Headquarters in Prague. I was wondering if you could extract the data for me.”

Duo gazed long at the old computer component, then at Heero’s flat expression. No fewer than two dozen questions flew through his mind, but only one found its way to his lips: “Why don’t you do it yourself? You’re the hacker, not me. Or did you forget our baby?”

Their “baby” happened to be a hulking 960-bit nightmare called Deadlock, cryptosystem they developed—quite unintentionally—during the winter of 197. It started out as a game at first; Duo would write an encoded script, little more than a few algorithms crafted with some randomly-placed obfuscations, and Heero would attempt to break into it. It gradually turned into a contest, then a mission, then a fight to the death. By the spring of 198, exhausted and at the utter limits of their capabilities, they finally ended in a stalemate. Heero, unable to brute-force his way any further into the system, and Duo, helpless to do anything more than hold him at bay and madly generate larger keys, had unwittingly given birth to what would become the flagship of ScytheTech Incorporated. Now regarded as one of the most lightweight, complex encryption programs ever devised, Deadlock was in its third version and growing into a handsome young bundle of software.

And none of it would have been possible without Heero’s ruthless hacking abilities.

A grin tugged at the corner of Heero’s mouth; perhaps he too was remembering. “As you are aware, my expertise is in destroying data, not resurrecting it. When it comes to recovery, you’re the best I know.”

Duo felt an unexpected burst of pleasure at his words, and hoped he was keeping a straight face.

“Besides,” Heero went on, “you’re much more knowledgeable about vintage electronics than I am. That relic you’re holding is a—”

“Hard disk, I know. Uses the old platter technology, which means it’s at least fifty years old. The Alliance went solid-state back in the 140s, but reformatted a lot of the disks to serve as firmware instead of secondary storage volumes.” Duo grinned acidly. “But you already know all this.”

“Yes.”

“Then you also know how incredibly difficult it is to recover reformatted information from disks, especially ones as old as this prehistoric piece a shit.”

“Yes.”

“Then you can appreciate the fact that I’ll prob’ly have to replace the read/write heads, rebuild the actuator, find a compatible interface cable so I can mount it to my system, and in the rare event that the disk itself hasn’t been scratched or burned or been exposed to an EM pulse, then just _maybe_ —”

“I understand the difficulty involved,” Heero said, stepping closer. “I understand that it’s going to take time and there’s a good chance it may all be for nothing. But I’m asking you to try, Duo. Please.”

Oh God, the magic word. Duo scowled, realizing that he’d been manipulated from the beginning—and worse, it didn’t even bother him. Not with sincerity like that.

He handed the drive back to Heero. “I’ll see what I can do. It’ll prob’ly take me a few days just to get it to a workin state again, and there’s no guarantee I’ll even be able to get anything off of it—”

“I know. That’s why I was planning on staying with you until you can make a diagnosis.” Heero must have seen the shadow that fell over Duo’s face, because his next words were: “Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way.”

Duo put his hands on his hips and studied his boots silently. To say that he looked displeased was a massive understatement.

“Listen,” Heero said lowly, “this drive likely contains some incriminating data on several high-profile OZ operatives, and I’m not going to let it out of my sight. I’m fairly certain that no one knows I have it, but there is always the possibility of error. That’s something I must take into account and be prepared to deal with. I trust you completely, Duo—but I don’t want any collateral damage.”

Duo raised his head to stare at Heero, his mouth drawn in a thin, tight line. There was no pretense to be seen in Heero’s dark blue eyes. _Collateral damage_. Nice way of telling someone you cared about their safety. But what else could he expect? This was Heero Yuy, master of tact, politic to his dying breath. His words were a little softer, but still as blunt as an anvil.

“There’s a futon in the spare bedroom,” said Duo, putting his gloves back on. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be in once I get this panel stripped.”

Heero nodded, slipped the drive back into its polyethylene bag, and left Duo to finish his task.

* * *

The interior of the Maxwell residence was like stepping into the womb of an android. It was almost completely dark, lit only by ambient LEDs or special non-ionizing CFL bulbs, and unusually clean. Most of that could be attributed to the special air filtration and conditioning units, which reduced particulate matter and kept the house a steady 18 degrees centigrade year-round—an optimal temperature for electronics. The furniture was sparse and modern, all black and glass and chrome. There was clutter, naturally, but it was organized; wires neatly bundled and labeled, pirated movies arranged by title, manuals and magazines sorted by topic and stacked by date, monitors free from fingerprints, all peripherals pristine and within reach of the main work station.  
  
Heero had been impressed, going so far as to compliment Duo on his domestic stewardship when he finally came indoors.  
  
“Well,” muttered Duo, untying his boots in the kitchen, “guess livin with you taught me a few bad habits.”  
  
Then he had shouldered past Heero and disappeared down the hallway. A few moments later the shower turned on, and Heero resumed his examination of Duo’s network setup.  
  
Meanwhile, under a spray of hot water, Duo clenched his teeth and shampooed his hair and tried not to think about the beautiful, complicated piece of humanoid weaponry with whom he was going to share quarters for the next several days. Already he felt his resolve slipping away, exposing a core that was weak and needy and detestably pliant. There was no way he was going to be able to stand his ground. Sooner or later Heero was going to hack through his defenses, rip out his heart, cauterize the wound, and disappear again. That was how it happened the last time, the time before that, and the time before that. Not this time. Duo couldn’t handle another attack—mentally or emotionally.  
  
Echoes of his conversation with Quatre back at L1 passed through his mind like mile-markers on a long road trip. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t know if he had the courage yet. This visit was completely unexpected. He hadn’t thought about Heero in weeks—okay, maybe days—but he certainly wasn’t ready to give him an ultimatum. He would just have to ask Heero to leave, take that stupid hard drive and come back some other time, he was just too busy and under a lot of stress right now and . . . and he would be lying.  
  
“Dammit,” Duo muttered, closing his eyes. Water pattered onto his head and rolled down his face in steady streams. There was no way out of this. He was trapped, cornered by the bane of his existence—and the love of his life.  
  
_Well, Maxwell_ , he thought sardonically, _you’ve got lying beat._ _Maybe it’s time to add running and hiding to that list, too._

* * *

Heero was studying a window frame when Duo reappeared, dressed in clean jeans and a shirt, his damp hair hanging freely down his back. He plopped down on the couch and began to pull on his socks.  
  
“You were very thorough,” said Heero, running his finger along the heavy-duty weather stripping where a barely-visible wire was attached.  
  
“About the security or the drafts?”  
  
“Both. I imagine this place uses quite a lot of power.”  
  
“Well, the solar convertors help cut the bill a lot. I had them installed last year. Good investment, too—I’ve even got them hooked up to the E-GENs for secondary backup if the power supplies go. Haven’t had to use either yet, but better safe than sorry.”  
  
Heero turned to look at Duo and went still for a moment, gazing at him. A strange expression passed across his face like a cloud’s shadow over sunny ground—cool, fleeting, but definitely an indication of something large overhead. “Yes,” he said finally. “Peace of mind is priceless.”  
  
“Hey, that would make a good slogan. I’ve been lookin for one, y’know.”  
  
“Hm. I heard ScytheTech is doing well,” said Heero haltingly, putting his hands in his pockets. “Congratulations. Out of all of us, I’d say you turned out to be the most successful.”  
  
Duo shook his head. “You’re forgetting Mr Winner, millionaire playboy with a heart of gold.”  
  
“Quatre’s a success in his own right, but he inherited his position. You’re entirely self-made. That’s admirable.”  
  
Duo stared in silence for a few moments. Then he clasped his hands together and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Look. I dunno what you’re tryin to pull here, but it’s obviously takin a lotta effort and you have my permission to stop.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Don’t play dumb, Heero. You’ve done nothin but flatter me ever since you showed up. ‘You’re the best at this’ and ‘you’re a success at that’. Complimenting me on my damn housekeeping—this isn’t you, Heero. You’re not this nice. What gives?”  
  
Heero’s eyebrows drew down to form an even steeper V. “What if I really am this nice and you’re shooting me down before I get a chance to show it?”  
  
“Oh, _please_ ,” Duo laughed. “Since when has being nice ever mattered to you? You don’t care about being sensitive or polite or other people’s feelings—it’s just window dressing to you. All you care about is the big picture, the final product. The ends are more important than the means.”  
  
Heero took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m glad to see you still know so much about me, especially since we haven’t spent any great length of time together in nearly a year. Please, continue. I’m interested to hear what other things matter to me.”  
  
Duo blinked. _Sarcasm_? From the lips of _Heero Yuy_? Impossible. An understanding of sarcasm meant an appreciation of irony and humor and exaggeration—all combined with the correct amount of wit and implemented in a timely fashion. Where had Heero learned _this_?  
  
“Look,” said Heero, his tone softer as he uncrossed his arms, “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I just want the information on this drive. You’ll be compensated—I’ll even pay for my room and board if you want—and if you’d prefer me to stay in my room the whole time I’m here, I’ll do it. But I don’t want to fight anymore, Duo. I just want your help.”  
  
Something large and heavy was beginning to form in Duo’s throat. He swallowed it down and blinked a few times. “On one condition,” he said, holding up his finger. “You don’t have to pay rent or anything, but . . . I wanna know what it is you’re lookin for.”  
  
Heero’s face went slack. “Why?”  
  
“Because,” said Duo slowly, “anything that important to you is somethin I wanna see.”  
  
There was a moment’s silence, then Heero nodded. “Alright.”  
  
Duo let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Okay. Well . . . when can I start?”

* * *

It was a lot easier than he had anticipated—Heero staying with him, that is, not necessarily the disk recovery, although that wasn’t going too badly, either. True to his word, Heero stayed out of Duo’s way and allowed him to work at his own pace, deliver progress reports as he felt necessary, and remained a quiet, tidy, unobtrusive guest. He took it upon himself to make the coffee in the morning, do the dishes, and tend to his own laundry. He even brought home take-out one evening, Duo’s choice. He was a model roommate.  
  
It was baffling. Either Heero was working very hard to be patient and accommodating, or sometime in the last year he had learned to override some of his original programming and loosen up a little. Like all things that revolved around the former Wing pilot, it was difficult for Duo to discern what was genuine and what was merely a well-crafted mask. At least they weren’t fighting. That had to be a record—five days together and not so much as a raised voice or smug comment. And no close encounters of the physical kind. It was almost like they were actual friends, old war buddies without a painful history of miscommunication and dysfunctional interactions.  
  
Duo thought a lot about these new developments, listening to electronic body music while he sat at his workbench in the garage and rebuilt the actuator on the drive. Maybe there was still a chance they could work things out, salvage the good parts of their relationship and scrap the twisted, rusty, ugly stuff that had become obsolete. Maybe they could build something again, the two of them, using the rescued pieces as a framework for something better, something sturdy and healthy. It was nice to fantasize about.  
  
Stardust and rainbows, he thought to himself, smiling. Sometimes you just had to make room for it.

* * *

“It’s finished.”  
  
Heero, sitting at the kitchen table and drinking his coffee, looked up from his laptop. “Completely?”  
  
Duo let out a yawn and dropped himself into the adjacent chair. He was still dressed in his pajamas—flannel pants and a t-shirt from a popular tropical restaurant on Earth—which was at least some indication that he had formally gone to bed last night. Or earlier this morning. His braid was a fuzzy, fraying rope.  
  
“Well, technically,” he amended. “In a physical sense, it’s ready to go. I put the new heads on last night, so now all we need to do is plug it in and see if it works.”  
  
“I sense a ‘but’ coming up.”  
  
Duo smirked. “But I don’t have a serial cable compatible for a drive that old. Good news is, I know where I can get one. If Kilroy doesn’t have one in stock, he can order one for you.”  
  
“Kilroy?”  
  
“Buddy a mine. Runs an electronics shop across town. His real name’s Ken, but he’s a big Styx fan. Y’know. _Domo arigato, Mister Roboto_.”  
  
Heero’s eyebrows went up, but otherwise his expression remained neutral.  
  
Duo waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind. It’s an old song. You prob’ly wouldn’t—”  
  
“Do you have it?”  
  
“The song? Well . . . yyyeah, I’ve got the whole album on my radio PC. Kilroy calls up and requests it every time I DJ live.”  
  
“I’d like to hear it sometime. Find out who this _Roboto-san_ is.”  
  
Duo sat back in his chair and watched Heero sip his coffee as if he hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary—but he had. Astoundingly, _immeasurably_ out of the ordinary. Heero’s interest in music as a whole was negligible at best, and he probably couldn’t name three musicians from the pre-globalization period. Why he suddenly wanted—or at least claimed to want—to hear some crusty old song that wasn’t even really that great, not like _Bohemian Rhapsody_ or _Don’t Stop Believing_ , almost made Duo wonder where the real Heero Yuy was and who was this guy sitting in his kitchen.  
  
However . . .  
  
Out of some vague, muddy intuition stirring in the core of his heart, Duo felt that he should keep his mouth shut and let it ride. If this was a new development in Heero, he didn’t want to scare it away with speculation and criticism. So he put on a grin—a slightly nervous one—and nodded.  
  
“Sure. Whenever you want.”  
  
“How about when we get back from Kilroy’s?”  
  
Duo looked surprised. “You’re comin with me? Who’ll watch little Disky while we’re gone?”  
  
“I’ve been here long enough to complete a thorough inspection of the premises; I’m satisfied with your security system.” Heero’s face twitched as if something compassionate were trying to break through and the appropriate expression was having trouble manifesting itself. “Besides, you haven’t left the house in three days. You look like you could use a recess.”  
  
“That ugly, huh?”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“I know, but . . .” Duo trailed off uncertainly, then grinned and stood up. “Never mind. Lemme get dressed and run a brush through my hair, then we’ll go. Sound like a plan?”  
  
Heero lifted his cup. “ _Ninmu ryoukai_.”

* * *

If any of this had felt surreal to Duo, being out in public had firmly grounded him in the real world, assuring him that, no, this wasn’t a dream, he and Heero really were walking shoulder-to-shoulder through the busy streets, talking about computers and guns and theoretical espionage and occupational hazards with one another as if it were the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Once upon a time it had been nearly impossible for them to communicate verbally; at one point they had mutually agreed to stop trying, but their attempts to rely solely on carnal correspondence availed them nothing. If anything, it had made a bad situation even worse. They had tried to reestablish connections several times since then, but the results were uncomfortable experiences that, in hindsight, hardly seemed worth the effort. It became apparent to both of them  that they might be better off just burning all the bridges between them and moving on, but so far no torches had been dropped. Why Heero kept coming back—and why Duo kept hoping he would—was a mystery that eluded them both.  
  
But Duo wasn’t going to allow himself to dwell on that now, or even try to figure out why. It hadn’t helped him in the past, and it probably wouldn’t help him now. Besides, how much did it really matter? Did he have to completely understand everything in the universe in order to enjoy it? No. Even if he didn’t know jack shit about aerodynamics or gravitational potential energy or escape velocity, it wouldn’t stop him from experiencing that euphoric rush of victory every time he launched into space. The moment was still just as real to him, regardless of the science and mathematics behind it.  
  
And right now Heero was here, talking to him, even smiling every now and then, and it was wonderful to be alive. Duo was satisfied enough to leave it at that.  
  
Maybe he should have tried this a long time ago.

* * *

“How’s it goin’, Kilroy?”  
  
A scruffy, bespectacled man in his 30s rose up from behind the counter, grinning widely. “Yo, Maxwell! Just the guy I wanted to see!”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Duo planted an elbow on the counter. “Whatcha got? Another vintage gaming platform? You know I stay away from those things for a reason, man. They’re addictive.”  
  
“It’s not a game system this time. Gimme a sec, I’ll show you.”  
  
Heero, meanwhile, was appraising the interior of the shop, taking in the shelves and tables and boxes and cases jam-packed with components of every sort of electronic device that had ever been manufactured. He was currently fixated on a handheld personal video camera that looked like it had been modified to include infrared, thermal and night imaging filters. He looked at the price tag and very carefully set it down. Outside the shop a steady flow of cars, bicycles and pedestrians streamed by, filling the air with the sounds and smells of a thriving, bustling society.  
  
Kilroy emerged from the back room carrying a flat, rounded square of plastic in his hands.  
  
Duo’s eyes widened. “Oh my God it can’t be.”  
  
“It is,” said Kilroy proudly, holding it up. “One precolonial Sony Discman, my friend. A little scratched on the outside and the skip track button doesn’t work,  but it’s in excellent condition and a steal for 350. I’ll even throw in a free compact disc.”  
  
Duo buried his face in his hands. “You’re killin me, Roy.”  
  
“Hey, you said you were interested in one.”  
  
“Yeah, but 350, with a broken skip button? Come on. This should be 250, 300 at the most . . . Would I get a choice in the CD?”  
  
“Polka Hits Volume 2 or Best of Hank Williams.”  
  
“Senior or Junior?”  
  
“Junior.”  
  
Duo shook his head. “Sorry, pal, no dice. Maybe next time.”  
  
“Okayyy,” Kilroy drawled, “but I don’t get portable CD players in every day, you know. It could be years before—”  
  
“Yeah yeah, years, I getcha. Listen, I’m needin an SAS connector for an old hard drive; male, 32-pin, version 4 or 5 preferably. Ya got anything like that in stock?”  
  
“Hm, you lookin for a whole cable or just the head?” asked Kilroy, stashing the Discman safely behind the counter.  
  
“Whole cable. The less I have to Franken-rig this thing, the better.”  
  
Kilroy made a strained face. “All I’ve got right now are Serial ATA cables. Now, if you were tryin to boot a SATA drive over a Scuzzy connection, that’d be one thing ‘cause they’re backwards compatible, but the other way around . . . good luck, Chuck.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” Duo raked a hand through his bangs. “How long would it take to order a connector?”  
  
“Couple weeks. Why, you needin somethin today?”  
  
“Eh, kinda, but if that’s the best you can do—”  
  
“Hold on,” said Heero, approaching the counter. “You said you have SCSI heads?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Kilroy uncertainly, leaning on the counter. “I mean, theoretically you could use a wire stripper to splice a Scuzzy head onto a SATA cable, and do reverse serial tunneling. It’s gonna be slow as hell, but it should get ya by until the order—”  
  
A deafening bang sounded outside the store, followed by the screeching of tires, an explosion, shattering glass, and screams of terror.  
  
Within the first half-second of the disturbance, Heero had thrown his arm around Duo’s shoulders and they both hit the floor, Heero curling himself around Duo’s body in a flesh-and-blood shield.  
  
Beneath him, Duo looked up with wide eyes. “What the fuck was _that_?”  
  
Heero crawled up without answering, pulled a Beretta M9 from his jacket, and began to maneuver his way to the door, staying low and covered: classic military tactical procedure. Kilroy peeked cautiously over the edge of the counter, looking hilariously similar to the “Kilroy Was Here” sign hanging on the wall directly behind him. Duo reached down and drew his 1911 from the holster on his ankle, and joined Heero on the opposite side of the door. They looked at each other, formulated a plan of action, and agreed. All without saying a word.  
  
Heero went out the door first; Duo peered around the corner in case he had to lay down suppressive fire, then followed.  
  
Out on the sidewalk the general mood had gone from one of shock and confusion to one of nervous relief. A quick analysis revealed that the threat—if there had even really been one—was gone. Heero slipped his gun back into his jacket and approached the scene of the incident. A small crowd was gathered around a transport truck that had beached itself on the sidewalk. The vehicle had apparently blown a tire, veered into the right-of-way, crashed into a lamp post, and busted its windshield. The driver appeared fine—if thoroughly embarrassed.  
  
Duo arrived at Heero’s side, studied the scene for a moment, and began to laugh. “Holy Mary, I just had five years of my life scared outta me, and for a goddamn tire!” He feigned a swoon and put a hand on Heero’s shoulder to steady himself. “I swear, there’s never a dull moment around here. Next thing ya know there’s gonna be fire trucks and. . . Heero? You okay?”  
  
Heero was standing motionless on the sidewalk, staring at the truck’s deflated tire with blank, fixed eyes, and trembling as if he had just plunged into freezing water. Duo could feel the tremors through his jacket. They came in 3-second waves, rising and falling. Heero had never shaken like this before.  
  
“Hey, hey,” said Duo gently, tucking his pistol into his jeans and pulling Heero away from the crowd. “Everything’s under control. Breathe. It’ll pass.”  
  
“I know. I’m fine.”  
  
“Yeah, right. You’re white as a sheet.” Duo reached down and grasped Heero’s hands. “And you’re ice cold. C’mon, let’s get outta here. The stupid connector can wait.”  
  
“ _No_. I’m okay. I just . . . I need a minute. You go get what you need. I’ll wait out here.”  
  
“Heero—”  
  
“Go, damn it! I don’t”—Heero lowered his voice—“I don’t want you to see me like this.”  
  
Duo looked like a kicked puppy.  
  
Heero closed his eyes. “Please. Please, Duo.”  
  
“. . . Okay. Don’t move. I’ll be back in two seconds, then we’ll go. Okay?”  
  
Heero nodded mutely. Duo dashed back into Kilroy’s as if he were on fire.  
  
The people on the sidewalk, having lost interest in the commotion that had been so startling a few minutes ago, slowly melted by ones and twos back into the current of their daily lives. Heero watched them disperse, chatting with one another over new subjects, leaving the wreckage behind in both distance and memory. Maybe they would mention it over dinner that evening, a few words for the day’s epitaph, or at work tomorrow, if they remembered. These were the people who had lived through decades of political upheaval, had endured years of terrorism, assassinations, bombings, destruction, violence and enough mechanized weaponry to power the engines of their nightmares for the next hundred years. These were the people who had moved on. These were the survivors.  
  
And Heero, for one brief moment, envied them with every fiber of his being.


	2. Side B

They didn’t go straight home; instead, Duo led Heero on a meandering journey through the greener, quieter blocks downtown, past libraries and galleries and campuses. The color gradually returned to Heero’s face and the shaking dissipated, but Duo mentioned nothing about it. In fact, he hardly said anything aside from a few comments about how good it felt to get out of the house or the last time he’d seen this part of town. It was a stark difference from the effortless conversation they had been carrying earlier that day.  
  
Duo glanced furtively at his watch as they ambled across a park. “Well, I dunno about you, but I’m startin to get hungry. You wanna grab somethin in town or just head back to the house?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Duo, caught completely off guard, performed an amazing array of facial acrobatics. “Hu _whut_?”  
  
Heero stopped walking and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “For what you did back there,” he said, staring straight ahead. “How you handled it. I’m . . . grateful.”  
  
“Uh.” Duo suddenly forgot how to make words with more than one syllable. “Um, sure. No prob. I mean, you’re good— _welcome_.” He closed his eyes and put a hand to his face as a litany of self-inflicted expletives rolled through his brain.  
  
Heero thankfully didn’t notice or didn’t care. “I guess I owe you an explanation,” he said quietly. “I appreciate your discretion . . . and your patience. I know this hasn’t been easy for you. If it makes you feel any better, it hasn’t been easy for me, either.”  
  
“Good God, wouldja just get to the point,” Duo groaned. “It’s not like you to be this evasive. I get it, you’re uncomfortable, I’m uncomfortable, we’re both stewing in uncomfortabil—”  
  
“I’m trying to find my parents.”  
  
Tires squealed in Duo’s head. He turned and stared at Heero’s face; it was naked and honest.  
  
“Oh,” he said softly. “That’s . . . uh.” Many adjectives ran through his mind, but they moved so quickly that he couldn’t seem to grasp onto a single one.  
  
“I’m trying to find out who they were, actually,” Heero clarified, returning to a slow walk. Duo followed at his side, matching his steps. “I’m certain both are dead now.”  
  
“Oh, I—I’m sorry.”  
  
Heero shrugged. “I don’t remember much about them. Not my mother, anyway. My father, on the other hand . . .” He frowned pensively. “I have a theory, but no hard evidence to substantiate it. That is, until now.”  
  
Duo opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. The cranking of his mental gears was practically audible. “The _disk_? But it’s. You said you got it from Alliance Intel. Why would—” Pause. “Wait. Are you sayin . . . y-your _parents_?”  
  
Heero nodded. “Possibly. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”  
  
“Damn,” whispered Duo, shaking his head. “That’s a helluva note. Can . . . can I ask why?”  
  
“Why I suddenly decided to find out who my parents are?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“It’s a long story,” said Heero. “We’d better sit down.”

* * *

Roughly half an hour later they found themselves occupying a booth in the back corner of Denver and Daisy’s, a busy diner known for its hamburgers and boisterous, friendly atmosphere. Heero and Duo were old customers, having long ago discovered a mutual appreciation for its fries and the constant ambient noise that facilitated private conversation. It was for the latter reason that they chose this establishment over the other restaurants on the colony—that and because Duo was in the mood for a good burger.  
  
They both ordered their usuals—cheeseburger and fries for Heero, Denver’s Special for Duo—and sipped their drinks in silence, avoiding eye contact and trying not to think about all the conversations they had shared here over the years.  
  
“You always wanted to know about my past,” said Heero finally, “and I always told you it didn’t matter.” He paused and looked at Duo, waiting for his response.  
  
“Do you still believe that?” asked Duo, meeting his eyes.  
  
“Not entirely. The past is important because it shaped us into who we are today, but we’re not meant to dwell there indefinitely. It’s something that needs to be acknowledged and reconciled in order for us to freely move into the future. You tried to help me realize that and I was unwilling. I apologize for being so narrow-minded.”  
  
“Uh. Apology accepted,” Duo murmured, astounded.  
  
Heero lowered his gaze to the table. “I’ve spent my life trying to erase the mistakes of the past by living solely in the present. I thought my future depended upon my actions in the now, but I was mistaken; the past is just as active as the present. I tried to convince myself it was dead and useless to me, and as a result I became unbalanced. I spent years off kilter, ignorant as to why I felt such inner conflict. After the war, my present was suddenly my future and I had no idea what to do with myself. I was no longer in control. The momentum of my life was pulling me apart and the only way I could keep it together was to build a wall around myself. I thought that in isolation I would find a new purpose, be able to separate the future from the present and create a place where I could exist as I wanted . . . but all I did was end up hurting those closest to me. And it wasn’t just you, Duo, although you got the worst of it. I’m sorry.”  
  
Duo swallowed hard and looked out the window to his right, blinking rapidly as the hot congestion of tears rose to his sinuses and knotted in his throat.  
  
Heero threaded his fingers together and concentrated on them. “I finally began thinking about my past, asking the questions I’d always been afraid of. For years I had allowed myself to believe I was Heero Yuy, a mission, an ideal, a means to an end. I was nobody’s son. I was the offspring of war and machines, so dissociated from the human race that I could barely remember how to live among them. I wanted to believe I’d always been that way, strong and superior—never weak or frightened. Never an infant in need of his mother’s care. It was easier to pretend I was invincible; I foolishly thought that if I believed it hard enough, so would others. And most of them did, for a time. But deep down I knew the truth. I knew it was there since the very beginning, and it wasn’t going to go away. I hated it. I tried to kill it, bury it, and run from it as long as I could, until I found myself so far from the past that there was no future ahead of me.”  
  
Duo, with a rising sense of horror, found the words spilling from his mouth: “You tried to kill yourself, didn’t you.”  
  
“No. But I considered it. I put the gun in my mouth once to see what it felt like, if it would affect my thoughts. I didn’t feel anything. In fact, I had stopped feeling altogether. That’s when I realized I had to yield to the past if I ever wanted to have a future.”  
  
“Why . . .” Duo clenched his fists under the table. “Why didn’t you tell me you were goin’ through this, Heero? I coulda . . . y-you shoulda told me!”  
  
“And have you discover that I’m vulnerable and flawed?” asked Heero, his tone full of self-contempt. “That I’m so much less than the Perfect Soldier everyone thinks I am? No, Duo. This was something I had to confront all on my own. I needed to focus. Going to you would have been too much of a distraction.” He added gently, “I mean that in the best of ways.”  
  
Duo looked at him, not knowing whether to smile or scowl or sob, although he felt capable of all three simultaneously right now. All he could do was give his head a slow, wondering shake. “So what did you do?”  
  
Heero folded his arms on the table. “I went to Earth with a backpack and a couple canteens and spent two months walking from Hiroshima to Higashidori. No compass, no watch. I don’t remember much about it. Subconsciously, I think it was one final attempt to make myself feel something.”  
  
“And did you?”  
  
“The last day,” said Heero after a thoughtful pause. “The trees parted and I found myself looking at the sea. I had been hearing it for days, but I couldn’t see it until then. I sat down in the sand and stared at it for hours. I thought about my parents, whoever they were, all the people who have come and gone out of my life . . . about those who have the courage to call me their friend. I sat there and cried until dark. Then I walked along the shore until I reached civilization, collapsed outside a hospital, and slept for the next 43 hours.” He sighed and sat back. “I don’t know what it was I felt, but I knew it was real. When I woke up, everything was crystal clear. I knew what I had to do. As soon as I was able, I came back to L1 and began the search for . . . whoever I was before I was Heero Yuy. So far it’s led me to Earth, L3, back and forth between the colonies, to Earth again, and now, finally, to you.”  
  
Duo sat motionless for a few moments, studying the man who sat across from him now, trying to imagine him ragged and tattered from weeks of travel, sitting on a beach in Japan and weeping into the sunset. It was difficult to envision—nearly impossible to believe—but he knew it had to be true. Even though Heero was certainly capable of lying, he had never lied to Duo, and there was no reason why he would start now. Especially about something like this.  
  
Just as Duo opened his mouth to speak, the waitress arrived with their food. She set their plates before them, asked if they needed anything (they didn’t, thanks), and cheerfully hurried along her route. Heero reached for the mustard in the condiment caddy and passed it to Duo before taking the ketchup for himself.  
  
Duo accepted the yellow bottle with a dazed look. “You’ve spent the last God-knows-how-many years in a state of extreme personal crisis,” he muttered, “suffered it all by yourself, practically walked from one end a Japan to the other . . . and yet you still remember I like mustard on my fries?”  
  
Heero squirted a dollop of ketchup onto his plate. “I try not to forget the important things,” he said flatly.  
  
Duo stared.  
  
“Don’t let your fries get cold.”

* * *

Conversation stalled for several minutes as they dug into their meals. The jukebox and the bustle around them filled the empty space where their words had once passed each other, sparing an awkwardness that in a quieter place would have been overwhelming. Duo’s burger was awesome as usual, decked out with bacon and pepperjack cheese and the tangy sauce he once claimed he could guzzle straight out of the bottle, but he couldn’t really enjoy it; he was too preoccupied thinking about what Heero had told him, marveling at his uncharacteristic wordiness and worrying what other ugly slices of inner darkness he was going to drag out into the light today.  
  
“You aren’t talking much,” said Heero, putting down his cheeseburger and wiping his hands with a napkin. “You okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Duo said automatically, then corrected himself. “No. Well, it’s . . . just a lot to take in. Disturbing news, y’know, it’s not the kinda stuff you wanna think about your—uh, other people goin’ through.”  
  
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”  
  
“That’s not the point. You hit bottom and you were all alone. There was no one to stop you from pullin that trigger.”  
  
“I stopped me.”  
  
“But what if you couldn’t? You’da done it, and then where would I—where would, it, it would be a helluva different day today, that’s for fuckin sure.”  
  
“Yes, it would. But I didn’t pull the trigger. I’m sitting here and having lunch with you.”  
  
Duo sat back and laughed—it was a fluttery sound, full of disbelief and scorn. “You just don’t get it, do you? Not ten minutes ago you were tellin me how damn important it is to be in touch with your past, and here you are now, tryin to sweep it all under the rug again! God, you couldn’t find your way outta that Perfect Soldier bullshit if it was a direct order!”  
  
Heero’s face went positively blank. Then his eyes narrowed, his brows inverting as they drew together and lifted. Duo didn’t think the human façade was capable of expressing the computational intricacies of a critical processing error, but he was certain he was witnessing one now. He reached across the table, touched Heero’s hand, and began to backpedal furiously.  
  
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. Look, you’re not—”  
  
“No,” Heero murmured, still perturbed, “you’re right. That’s exactly what I was doing. I’m so sorry, Duo.”  
  
“No no no, don’t apologize—God, please, dammit.” Duo covered his eyes with his free hand and wished he were dead. Or at least slower to anger.  
  
“I lost sight of the past again,” said Heero. “It’s a problem I’m still working to correct. Thank you for setting me straight.”  
  
Duo didn’t reply. He sat there cradling his head despondently.  
  
Heero slid his hand out from under Duo’s and reenacted the original gesture, adding a gentle squeeze. Duo raised his head. He looked angry, remorseful, and utterly exhausted. Heero did his best to smile, but it fell short of his intentions. “Don’t give up on me, Duo.”  
  
“Hnf. I’ve been tryin to give you up for the past five years. What makes ya think I’ll suddenly succeed?”  
  
“Even a blind man will hit a bullseye if he shoots at the target long enough.”  
  
Duo grinned sourly and pulled his hand free from Heero’s. “Sounds like somethin Trowa would say.”  
  
“He did; I just borrowed it.”  
  
“Huh? Get outta town. When did you talk to Trowa?”  
  
“A few weeks ago,” said Heero. “He and Catherine were in Munich when I was completing my business in Prague, so I stopped by to see them.”  
  
“What for?” Duo asked, picking up a fry. “I mean, you two don’t talk much to each other as it is, and unless she had a change a heart recently, Cathy wouldn’t hand you a glass a water if you were on fire.”  
  
“Catherine and I have settled our differences over the years,” said Heero. “And I’ve always appreciated Trowa’s company, even if we don’t say much. He has an inner serenity about him that I find reassuring.”  
  
Duo tried to ignore the little barb of jealousy that pricked his ego.  
  
“But specifically, I wanted to get his input,” Heero continued. “So far Trowa is the only one among us who’s come back from the void of familial obscurity. I wanted to know how he felt about suddenly discovering who he is, if it changed him for better or worse—or at all.”  
  
“Well? What did he say?”  
  
“He told me to go forward with my search. Even though his parents are dead, he said that knowing who they were gave him a sense of closure he hadn’t realized he needed.” Heero watched Duo take a large bite of his burger. “What about you? Haven’t you ever wondered who your parents were?”  
  
“Sure,” said Duo, one cheek bulging as he chewed. “But I don’t care enough to find out. Father Maxwell and Sister Helen were there for me when my parents weren’t. I got to experience _their_ love—and I remember it. It’s one a the few things I decided to carry with me forever.” He swallowed. “Selective baggage, y’know? If ya gotta drag somethin around with ya the resta your life, why not let it be somethin good?”  
  
“Sage advice,” Heero agreed. “But what if you’ve got no good baggage?”  
  
Duo pulled his lips into a sideways grimace.  
  
“That’s my situation. I’ve got no points of reference, no family or childhood friends on which to gauge  my emotional experiences. All I’ve got is facts. Maybe I’ll end up feeling differently once I know for certain, but I . . . think I’ve got to at least try.”  
  
“You said you had a theory,” said Duo, sipping his soda. “One about your father.”  
  
“Yeah.” Heero paused, as if gathering his thoughts and arranging them for the most efficient expression. “When my mother disappeared, a man named Odin became my guardian. It might have been a code name, I’m not certain; I never knew him by any other name. He suddenly appeared one day, before I even knew my mother was gone, and took me away. He told me something terrible had happened and I couldn’t go back home, that there were bad people looking for us. He said he’d teach me how to hide from them, like he was doing. I was probably four or five when this happened.  
  
“I can’t think of a reason why anyone would do what Odin did, taking on the responsibility and liability of looking after a child during an already complicated time of his life, unless he was my father or perhaps a close friend of my father’s.”  
  
He glanced up at Duo and found him leaning forward slightly, eyes wide and expression earnest—the very definition of fascinated.  
  
“For the next four years, Odin trained me rigorously,” Heero went on. “Firearms, espionage, martial arts, survival tactics, sabotage, surveillance, dozens of other skills. He said they were necessary for me to learn if we hoped to avoid being caught by our enemies—whoever they were. I never discovered the identities of the people we were running from, but I suspect it might have been the Alliance. I believe Odin might have been an operative of theirs who defected, in which case, there should be a record of him somewhere.”  
  
“Like Alliance Intel in Prague,” finished Duo, his eyes shining.  
  
Heero nodded. “That hard disk you’re working on contains detailed dossiers of every Alliance soldier from A.C. 160 to 185. Or it did at one point, I’m certain.”  
  
“And you think this Odin guy’s file might be somewhere on the disk?”  
  
“That’s what I’m hoping. I collected over twenty hard drives from the site and was able to recover partial artifacts from a few of them, but the rest were too damaged or degraded for me to access the data. I knew this was your specialty, so I came to you.”  
  
“I appreciate the confidence,” said Duo slowly, “but what if I can’t recover the data? What if there’s nothin to recover?”  
  
“Then I’ll start over,” Heero answered. “Wipe the slate clean and try a different avenue. Maybe you can help me with that, too.”  
  
“Depends if I want to,” Duo countered, meeting Heero’s intense gaze. “Maybe by the end a this I’ll have had all I can take and just wanna walk away.”  
  
“Maybe,” agreed Heero. “You have every right, and I won’t blame you if you do . . . but I hope you won’t.”  
  
“Because you need my expertise.”  
  
“Because I need you.”  
  
Silence fell. The waitress appeared, topped off their drinks, disappeared. Duo tapped the side of his glass with his fingernail, staring at the bubbles as they wiggled around ice cubes in their journey to the surface.  
  
“I’ll have to think about it,” he said softly.  
  
“That’s fine,” said Heero.

* * *

The walk home was wordless and tense. The afternoon light threw shadows across their path, tired ghosts stretching lean silhouettes over concrete and asphalt. Whatever effervescence that had existed between them earlier in the day had faded—now they were back to the beginning. Or the end. Or wherever they were on this long journey they had started together back in A.C. 195.  
  
They arrived at the house around 16:30; Duo unlocked the door, turned the security system from AWAY to HOME, then took the bag containing the SATA cable and SCSI connectors to his workbench in the garage. He shut the door behind himself, leaving Heero alone in the living room.  
  
After a few indecisive moments of standing around and listening to Duo rummage through toolboxes, Heero took off his jacket and placed it on the back of the couch, then walked over to the bookcase in the corner. He stood in front of it for a while, gazing blankly at Duo’s collection of reading material. Most of it consisted of computer manuals and amateur radio magazines, but there were some books for leisure and entertainment. He picked up a techno thriller, read the dust jacket, and took it to the couch.  
  
He was four pages into it when the monitor at Duo’s main workstation in the living room clicked on. Heero observed the pointer moving across the screen, opening folders and transferring files, and gathered that Duo was remoting in from his radio PC in the garage. Heero returned to the book.  
  
Suddenly music faded in from the computer speakers, a shimmery cascade of synthesizers that slowly grew in volume. A chorus of voices announced, “ _Domo arigato, misuta Roboto, mata au hi madeee!_ ”  
  
Heero sat up, looking almost alarmed.  
  
“ _Domo arigato, misuta Roboto, himitsu wo shiritaiiii . . ._ ”[1]  
  
The song launched into the first stanza, and a smile unexpectedly found its way to Heero’s lips. He laid the book in his lap and leaned back, listening.  
  
_I’ve got a secret I’ve been hiding under my skin  
My heart is human, my blood is boiling, my brain IBM  
So if you see me acting strangely, don’t be surprised  
I’m just a man who needed someone and somewhere to hide  
To keep me alive, just keep me alive . . ._  
  
In the garage, Duo queued up several other albums on the playlist and returned to his workbench, mumbling along with the lyrics.  
  
“ _Somewhere to hiiiide, to keep me alive . . ._ ”  
  
He turned on the soldering iron and let it warm up while he clipped the connectors off the SATA cable with his wire splitter. He stripped the protective outer casing, baring the wires, and carefully separated the individual strands. What relief there was in manual labor, to be preoccupied with a tangible puzzle, something he could fix with his hands. It spared him the agony of trying to figure out how he was going to handle the delicate, complex situation that existed on the other side of that door. He was pretty sure he understood the implicit nature of what Heero was trying to tell him back at the restaurant, but he wondered if he could trust his own perception. So much had changed about Heero since the last time they’d seen each other. Midlife crises usually do that to people, and Duo had heard of quarter-life crises thanks to the numerous self-absorbed pseudo-journalists on the EIN[2] these days; nevertheless, it was all very suspect . . . not that he didn’t _want_ to believe, of course.  
  
Duo grinned, recalling Kilroy’s fanatic fondness for a popular precolonial television serial about two government agents on an endless quest for the truth. One of them had a poster in his office of a flying saucer hovering over the trees with the phrase _I WANT TO BELIEVE_ stamped emphatically on the bottom. Kilroy had a replica tacked to the wall in the back room of his store.  
  
“I want to believe,” Duo murmured, opening up one of the connector heads. What was the other apothegm from that show? Ah, yes. “The truth is out there.” Duo could believe _that_ ; but finding the way “out there” without getting lost or going crazy, and living to tell about it—that was the hard part.  
  
_The time has come at last (secret secret, I've got a secret)  
To throw away this mask (secret secret, I've got a secret)  
Now everyone can see (secret secret, I've got a secret)  
My true identity . . ._

* * *

It was after 20:00 when the garage door opened and Duo emerged, rubbing the cricks out of his neck and shuffling to the kitchen for a drink. The living room was dark, the fluorescent light over the kitchen sink the only source of illumination. Duo grabbed a Hard Rock Café souvenir glass from the cabinet and filled it from the tap. In the background, a dead Englishman sang mournfully about wild horses and a heartache that went soul-deep.  
  
Duo drained the glass and trudged down the hall to the bathroom to take a leak, mentally staging everything he had to do now that the connector heads were attached. The result had been crude and ugly—Mary Shelley’s _Frankencable_ was an adequate description—but that was the nature of jury-rigging in general. Necessity is the mother of invention. Or maybe desperation was. Duo wouldn’t mind having a pithy keepsake like that hanging on the wall above his workbench.  
  
He flushed the toilet and turned off the lights and made his way through the dark living room, heading for the garage door, still rubbing his stiff neck. He wondered where Heero was. The door to the spare bedroom across the hall had been open, revealing an unoccupied interior. He had probably gone out again.  
  
Then Duo saw the pair of boots sitting neatly on the floor by the couch, side-by-side. Heero only took his shoes off if he was showering or sleeping—sometimes not even then, depending on the situation—so Duo softened his steps and peered over the back of the couch.  
  
Heero was stretched out on the cushions, Michael Crichton’s _Prey_ spread pages-down on his stomach—it looked like he was more than halfway through it. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and regular. Fast asleep. He looked peaceful, content. Fulfilled. _Ninmu kanryou_.  
  
From the nearby computer speakers, Mick Jagger continued to croon:  
  
“ _I watched you suffer a dull aching pain  
Now you decided to show me the same  
No sweeping exits or offstage lines  
Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind . . ._ ”  
  
Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the sight. But Duo’s heart hiked into his throat and refused to be swallowed. He looked away, his eyes and cheeks burning like an overloaded furnace. If he kept looking he would give in and give out, and he wasn’t ready to do either. Not yet. He tried to remind himself how much pain Heero had caused him, all the heartbreak and anger and frustration he’d endured, the days of slamming doors and stubborn silences, nights of hard kisses and hollow pleasure. He tried to remember the strong, confident promises he had made to not fall for these old tricks again. He was twenty-goddamn-one-years-old now. This shit had gone on long enough.  
  
And then, with a cool, sharp-edged sense of understanding, Duo realized he was getting tangled in the same trap Heero was trying to avoid: locking oneself into a narrow period of time and compulsively worshiping it, disregarding all other events and contexts, unwilling to accept the present (or the past, in Heero’s case). Disfiguring the future to make it conform to the comfort zones they were so reluctant to leave.  
  
_That’s when I realized I had to yield to the past if I ever wanted to have a future._  
  
Belaying his better judgment, Duo turned his head and looked down at Heero’s face: a man who mistrusted the present analyzing a man who ignored the past. What a pair they were, Duo thought. He wondered if his inability—no, his unwillingness—to yield to the present had put his own future in jeopardy. If so, they needed each other right now—  
  
_There you go again, makin excuses. You’re just dyin to jump on his dick again, aren’tcha._  
  
No, it wasn’t like that. This was a legitimate yin-and-yang situation, two broken machines missing parts that the other had in abundance. Shit, no wonder they’d had so many problems back then; they were truly living in different time periods—  
  
_Hindsight is 20-20, fucker._  
  
—but now, having identified the source of their strife, knowing what needed to be done to fix it, everything was changed. Maybe there was a chance. Maybe they could work it out. Maybe, if they tried . . .  
  
_I understand the difficulty involved. I understand that it’s going to take time and there’s a good chance it may all be for nothing. But I’m asking you to try, Duo. Please._  
  
God, could that have been Heero’s intention from the very beginning? Was this hard drive business nothing but an attempt to reconnect, reestablish communications?  
  
_Then I’ll start over. Wipe the slate clean and try a different avenue. Maybe you can help me with that, too._  
  
Duo stared at Heero’s long eyelashes, admiring the way they cast soft shadows on his cheeks. Ol’ Zero-One was a master of manipulation, but to go this far would be outrageous, even for him. He hadn’t come all the way to L2 to rekindle the flames, that just wasn’t Heero’s style . . . but he hadn’t poured his heart and guts out to Duo for no reason, either. There had to be some truth to both sides. It was the only explanation . . . wasn’t it?  
  
Duo shivered and rubbed his bare arm. Damn, it was cold in here. There was an alternating vent in the garage ceiling that pumped cool air inside when the exterior door was down, but it was still several degrees warmer in there than the interior of the house. Going from one to the other was always something of a thermal shock.  
  
Before he fully realized what he was doing, Duo had walked over to the adjacent chair and grabbed the throw blanket from the arm, unfolding it with a quiet flap. He returned to the couch and spread the blanket over Heero’s body. It didn’t cover him completely and Duo had to pull down the bottom a few inches to cover Heero’s feet, but it was better than nothing. He probably didn’t need it, probably wouldn’t care about the gesture, but so what. Duo felt better knowing that Heero wasn’t lying out here in the dark in short sleeves with the AC slowly refrigerating him into a cryogenic state.  
  
God, what was he still doing standing here? It was 20:35. He had things to do.  
  
Duo turned and walked toward the garage, shutting the door behind him slowly and quietly.  
  
Seconds later Heero’s eyes opened, fully awake and alert. He stared up at the ceiling and listened to the music play on the computer, his cool skin growing warm beneath the blanket.

* * *

Sometimes Duo marked the passage of time with a clock. Other times he accounted for it in resource redistribution cycles, typing speed, or bladder capacity. Still other times, like tonight, he measured it in songs. So far he’d burned his way through Led Zeppelin’s Greatest Hits, Pink Floyd’s _Dark Side of the Moon_ , an assortment of popular singles from the pre-globalization period, including Journey, Van Halen, Depeche Mode, and Scorpions, and the entirety of Electric Light Orchestra’s _Time_. And his playlist was barely at the halfway mark. The concept of “enough music” never occurred to Duo Maxwell.  
  
After running a continuity diagnostic on the new cable and discovering that it was in fact working, Duo had decided to try plugging the drive in to his radio PC to clock the data rate. It meant cutting off the tunes and nixing the psychedelic screensaver, but there was no other way around it. He shut down all extraneous programs, reconfigured the processors to allow for the maximum allotment of available resources, slipped off the side panel of his PC, and plugged the disk into the motherboard. When he rebooted the system, the geriatric drive lit up, whirring and clicking.  
  
“It’s ah-liiiiiiiive!” Duo declared to the empty garage, raising his hands above his head and casting dramatic shadows on the wall. “Alright, Frankie-baby, time for your checkup . . .”  
  
He initiated a comprehensive virus scan on the hard drive and kept the log active while it ran, allowing him to view some of the larger directory listings that flashed onscreen. It was exciting at first, peering down the throat of the Alliance and catching a glimpse of its ugly guts, but much of the hard drive seemed to contain standard program files and applications that weren’t the least bit extraordinary; it wasn’t long before Duo was slumping onto the desk, staring at the screen with a dull, sleepy look in his eyes.  
  
He must have dozed off at some point because the sound of squeaking hinges brought him back to full consciousness. He turned his head and saw Heero standing by the door, his hair sticking up in tufts and clocksprings. He tucked his hands under his arms and narrowed his eyes at the brightness of the desk lamp. “It’s after midnight,” he said.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” sighed Duo, slouching back in his chair and massaging the tendons in his neck. “I got it plugged in and workin. I’m runnin a scan now.”  
  
“How’s it coming?” Heero asked, moving over to stand behind Duo and observe the monitor.  
  
“Slow as hell, just like Kilroy said, but it’s comin. If everything checks out I’ll take it in to my main computer and start the recovery process. It’s a lot faster than this thing.”  
  
Duo felt Heero touch the back of his neck, pushing his hand away. Heero gripped his shoulders firmly, pressing his thumbs into the tense trapezii muscles and beginning to knead them. It felt wonderful. Duo’s eyes fell half-closed and he went limp, allowing his body to move in rhythm with Heero’s ministrations.  
  
“Have you been timing the process?” Heero asked, still fixated on the screen.  
  
“Started to, but then I”—a ligament in his neck creaked—“ugh, yeah, then I musta dozed off.”  
  
“You should go to bed. You’ve been staying up late the past several nights.”  
  
“I focus better at night. I’m a night owl.”  
  
“I know. But you’ve also been getting up the same time as me every morning, which means you haven’t been getting your normal eight-and-a-half hours. If you’re not careful, you’ll become sleep deprived.”  
  
“Eh, I’ll live,” said Duo, shrugging. Something cracked in his upper back. Heero withdrew his hands. Quiet disappointment came over Duo, then Heero’s left arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding him tightly, his breath a warm whisper against his ear. He felt Heero’s hand press between his shoulder blades, then came his low, smooth murmur: “Deep breath.”  
  
Duo closed his eyes and relaxed, filling his lungs with all the air they could hold. They reached capacity, he held for a second, then Heero gave a quick thrust, popping every thoracic vertebrae in Duo’s back. The air was squeezed from his lungs with a surprised _huuff!_ , a small groan riding in at the very end.  
  
“Ohh God I needed that,” Duo groaned, letting his head fall back. He smiled gratefully. “ _Domo arigato_.”  
  
“ _Doitashimashite_ ,” Heero answered, gazing at Duo’s upside-down face.  
  
The smile faded from Duo’s lips. His heart began pounding against his ribs as a million-chemical cocktail shot across his synapses like napalm, lighting up his nervous system.  
  
Something passed over Heero’s face, relaxing the sharpness of his features, softening his eyes and his mouth. He leaned down and kissed Duo’s lips—lightly, tenderly, with a gentleness Duo never realized Heero possessed. It was a subdued gesture, hardly more than a touch, but its echo rang with more ardor and affection than the sum of all their past encounters.  
  
Fireworks blazed through Duo’s veins, sparkling and singing. The dim, dying star of his heart promptly went supernova. Pep-talks and promises disintegrated in the heat. Emotions were distilled in the bright, blinding explosion, all impurities melting away and leaving behind only one shining, irrefutable truth.  
  
Heero slowly pulled away, straightening his back and rolling his lips inward—wetting them or tasting them, Duo couldn’t tell. But he looked terribly self-conscious, even slightly guilty. Whatever he was feeling, it was clearly unbearable—he turned to leave.  
  
Duo spun his chair around and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t you dare,” he muttered. “Don’t you run away again.”  
  
Heero went stock-still. He didn’t turn around, didn’t say a word.  
  
“I never stopped loving you, Heero,” said Duo in a strained voice. “And . . . and whenever you’re ready, whatever you decide . . . I’m here, regardless.”  
  
The hard drive clicked and chattered as it was scanned. Fans whirred, cooling the CPU. Then the wrist in Duo’s grasp slowly twisted, turning so that their hands could clasp one another.  
  
“You deserve better than me,” said Heero flatly. “I’m a mess.”  
  
“Who isn’t?” Duo scoffed. “We’re all fuckin broken inside—it’s the human condition. It doesn’t mean we deserve to . . . to spend our whole lives in emotional quarantine, keepin ourselves locked away ‘cause we’re afraid of infecting others with our misery. In fact, it’s a helluva lot easier walkin down Bad Luck Boulevard when you’ve got a friend with you.” Duo squeezed the hand he held. “And if that’s all I can ever be to you, Heero, then I’d consider myself one a the lucky ones.”  
  
A few moments passed before Heero finally turned and faced Duo. His eyes gleamed in the lamplight. “No,” he said roughly. “I’m the lucky one.”  
  
Duo stretched out his arm toward Heero, beckoning. A tear tracked a silvery line down Heero’s right cheek as he kneeled, planted himself between Duo’s legs, and fell into the embrace. They squeezed each other tightly, scents and shapes of the familiar past merging with the emotions of the present; lost pieces finally fitting together, falling into place. It felt good. It felt right.  
  
The virus program beeped, alerting the user that it had encountered missing or corrupted files that could not be scanned. CONTINUE OR ANALYZE FURTHER?  
  
Reluctantly, Duo pulled back and twisted in his seat, selecting CONTINUE and resuming the scan. When he turned around he found Heero staring solemnly at the monitor, the bluish-white glow reflecting in his eyes. Duo touched his cheek, bringing him back.  
  
“Think you’re ready for this?” he asked softly. “The future?” He paused. “Us?”  
  
Heero inhaled deeply. “The future is coming whether I’m ready or not. As for us, well . . .” The corners of his mouth curved up. “I think we finally have a reason to look forward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] _Thank you very much, Mister Robot, I want to know your secret_
> 
> [2] EIN: Abbreviation for Earthsphere Interconnected Network, the digital communications protocol used by Earth and the Colonies which replaced the Internet as a more efficient means of computer networking in the early days of colonization.


	3. Bonus Track




End file.
